The night passed and the morning came, and the days went by; but this feeling remained with him,--he could not shake it off.
To know that his intended victim had been guilty of an offence so enormous that its mere disclosure would bring down upon the offender punishment and permanent disgrace, and yet to be powerless, to see this unblushing liar go scot-free from the penalty of a crime which he did not dare to bring to light, hurt him, galled him, exasperated him almost beyond endurance.
It made him careless at drill, neglectful of his studies, violent in temper. He spoke lightly of rules; he sought the society of boisterous fellows; he fraternized with the ruder and disorderly element. His demoralization was so marked and rapid that it became the talk of the school.
He never spoke to Brightly; he tried to ignore him; but whenever these two met in those days, whether in the drill-hall, the classroom, or the corridor, each felt that the other knew to a certainty the guilt of both.
And Brede, measuring his enemy's feeling by his own, had no conception of the true state of Brightly's mind.
Had he known what this young fellow suffered, he might have asked no greater revenge. The lie was scarcely cold on the lad's lips before he regretted having spoken it. Within ten minutes from the time he uttered it he would have given much to be able to recall it; but that was clearly impossible. He felt that it would only make the matter so much the worse.
His exultation at Brede's discomfiture was short-lived. After that night it never gave him a moment's pleasure. He sought to drown the memory of it in idle thought, in boisterous fun, in hot discussion with his fellows; but all expedients were vain. It was a veritable Banquo's ghost. He lost strength, hope, courage, ambition. Before the utterance of that fatal falsehood he had not thought but that he should soon regain his office, his honor, and his old position in the school. Now he did not even wish to do so.
But of Brede he had scarcely a thought now, except the occasional flashing up of that old hatred and disgust in his heart. They were little more to each other than strangers.
Once they met and exchanged words. It was in the drill-hall, while they were waiting for supper. There was a small boy at the school who was called by his companions "Apache," or, more briefly, "Patchy." He had come there from an army post in the far West, where his father, a government officer, was stationed; and it had pleased his fellows to pretend that they supposed him to belong to the Apache tribe of Indians.